Not in Our Stars
by Alice Wright
Summary: Yet another alternate reality Javert fanfic.
1. Unexpectedly Alive

Ok, I've decided to work on my descriptions and do some short story work. Other chapters to come, if they come. The Muse is being decidedly difficult.

This is done in the style of Victor Hugo... kind of.

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Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or the plot or Paris.

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"The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars but in ourselves..."

–Julius Caesar: Act I, Scene II

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There is an alley on the outskirts of Paris that is well used by travelers of all types. It goes along the Seine on the west side of the city, ending near the Place de Louis XV. At this moment, the gloomy half-light of dawn was beginning to creep upon that path as it did with all the streets of Paris. Black painted metal lamp-posts, not yet snuffed, edged the cobblestones, illuminating the way for what few travelers passed by at so early an hour.

Nearby this spot stood an oak tree, its dark roots tangling into the water like the tentacles of an octopus. The tree leaned towards the river a bit, its branches stretching over the banks as if it were trying to look at itself in the surface of the water. At the base of this oak tree-- half in the water, half splayed across the roots-- lay the body of a man.

Had one had the misfortune to be walking along that path at such an early hour and see the inanimate figure lying by the road, (after screaming or performing some other act of terror) they would have noticed that the figure was of a taller than average height with a similar build, that his complexion was swarthy, and that his clothes were soaked through with river water. Had this person been particularly observant, they would have noticed that dark circles ran under the stranger's eyes, that his hands were even now balled into fists, and that his entire body reflected an altogether uneasy state of being.

Had the person been acquainted with the figure, they would have recognized the form of a very agitated Inspector Javert.

Luckily, for both the observer and the observed, there was no such person by. The Parisian street was deserted save for an old tramp who had fallen asleep beneath one of the bushes in Champ de Elysées. The entire place reflected the calm after a bad storm.

Suddenly, the disheveled figure burst to life, breaking the moment of calm. Water gushed from his nose and mouth while coughs racked his body as it expelled the river's water from his lungs. His arms grappled about for something to support himself and found the roots of the tree. With these, he levered himself onto dry land.

Having rid himself of the Seine, he lay face down in the earth. He was both surprised and incensed to find himself still breathing. Yet, despite his best efforts to the contrary, he continued to do so. His body –without his permission—had decided to live. This infuriated him more than anything else had in his life. That that strange mechanism, fate, had denied him even the peace of death was beyond tolerance, beyond comprehension. He had deserved death. He had been ready to face it, head-on at the hands of his victim. When that had been denied him, he had been ready to perish by his own hand, yet still he was denied his demise. It was as if the world were laughing at him, not letting him carry out his duty and not letting him end it either. At the thought, a long, deep groan escaped his lips--- like that of some angry beast when caged.

Little blades of grass tickled his forehead and mouth. The firm ground felt strong and comforting in a world that had just turned upside down. The sun's bright rays warmed the right half of his body, while the other side lay in cool shade. He could smell the sweet dustiness of the earth around him. And for the first time in years, he relaxed—if only for a moment. There was nothing to do, no pressing matters.

For all intents and purposes, he was dead.

The thought jarred him out of this rare moment of peace. His head and chest lifted off the ground and his arms rose to support them.

To be dead is a terrible thought, even to a police inspector first class.

It is all the more terrible when one is in fact alive.

Now fully alert, he arranged himself so that he sat crouched with one arm across his outstretched leg and the other on the ground. His head bowed, he tried to reason out his predicament. Three options revealed themselves: to flee, to accept, or to go back to the police station and pretend he had never tried to throw himself into the Seine. To flee was cowardice, this he knew despite his recent attempt to do so from the world. To pretend was to lie, another blot. He was not quite ready to accept the situation as his current predicament might suggest.

A fourth option presented itself: to wait.

"There has to be some other way," he muttered. Yet he could think of none. With a grumble, he got to his feet, grimaced at his wet clothing, and began walking. He didn't know where to. His chest and head still ached from his encounter with the Seine and his stride lacked some of its former strength and purpose. At times, he found himself growing tired, during which he only pushed himself harder. His body had already denied him once; he wasn't going to let it do so again.

Out of habit, he found himself wandering towards the city. By the time he reached Place de Louis XV, he stopped. He had already decided not to go back to the police station. His apartment would be similarly unacceptable, especially if a search had begun regarding his absence. What then?

He did not know. He felt he did not know anything anymore; only that he was wet, in pain, and decidedly annoyed.

With a slight grunt, he turned north.


	2. L'Madeline

Thanks to InspectorPhantom, L'Ael-Inire, and AMZ for their reviews.

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Not far north of Place de Louis XV is a church regarded as L'église Sainte-Marie-Madeleine or simply La Madeleine. At the time of the Revolution, the church was not the splendid neo-Greek structure we see today. It was originally a synagogue, but, the good Christian people having rid the place of the Jews, it was converted into a church to St. Mary Magdalene. Some centuries later, the people (or perhaps simply the bishop) wished to get rid of the Hebraic façade the former synagogue still displayed. It was decided that it should be rebuilt in the year 1757. Construction began in 1763. After building the brilliant Greek portico, construction had stopped presumably due to lack of funding or interest on the part of the diocese. This left the building with a great entryway, complete with fluted columns, followed by a flat, open platform where the church should have been.

It was towards this very spot that Javert found himself walking.

The wind was still and the air was cool. No sound, no noise could be heard within a mile of where the inspector walked, save for the slight tap of his own feet against the cobblestones. The space had an unmistakable air of melancholy, almost as if the streets themselves longed to forget the past night and many other such nights before that. The cold breeze blew. Javert found himself, out of habit, trying to pull his great coat tighter around himself only to find that the thick, wet cloth only made the situation worse. Yet still he stopped every few minutes to repeat the action, seeming to forget in his jumbled brain that he had tried it moments before with little to no success. Thus it was with a sort of jerking stumble that he journeyed down the street, continually trying to warm himself and continually finding that, no matter how hard he tried, his coat was still exacerbating the situation.

At length, he reached the corner of Rue Royale and Rue de Saint Honoré. About 150 meters in front of him stood the church which we have previously mentioned. To his left and right was the Honoré district of the city and Place de Vendome, respectively. For some reason (to this day we are still unsure as to why), he chose to head towards the church. We can be sure that no religious sentiments suddenly struck him. That the place offered warmth would likewise be false given its half-finished construction. Ignorance of this could not have shaped his actions as he would have known how the building had been abandoned just out of attentiveness to civic duties. What then could have persuaded him to mount the steps and go into the structure? Could it be that he found some sort of kinship with this half-finished hunk of rock? That he felt drawn to it out of some imperceptible tie of brotherhood? We do not know, nor shall we ever know, for all scraps of evidence towards that knowledge have disappeared with Monsieur le Inspector himself.

When he was about 30 meters from the steps of the church, the inspector stopped and looked up at the portico. "La Madeline," he muttered, snorting a bit at the coincidence.

The irony that he should visit such a place cannot be missed. To visit the church of a prostitute, not to mention one whose name was identical to an alias of his late enemy's, was in of itself enough, but there was still more. She was the one who interceded for the damned. The thought nibbled at the back of Javert's mind as he walked through the marble columns onto the unfinished stone platform behind them.

The grey dawn was still just barely breaking. That strange ethereal light that can only be found around daybreak was fighting to get through the thick mass of blackened clouds. No stars, just barely the sun, could be seen through that mass. Just such a gloom could be said to preside over Javert's mind at this time. Could he really have been so wrong in all his duties? Nonsense. He had done what was asked of him, nothing less. All those men and women he had thrown in jail had deserved their fate. Had he not done it, someone else would have. With these thoughts to comfort him, he set across the stone platform until he was squarely in the middle of it.

As he stared at the open field behind the half-finished church, the wind suddenly picked up, sending a chill though the marrow of the inspector's bones. He grasped at the coat more tightly, only to pull back his hand with a snarl at the feel of the chilled, water-logged cloth. He felt as though ice had begun to form on his nose and legs, or if they had not would do so within seconds now. Granted, such a thing could not possibly be true. Ice in June is not a common phenomenon nor shall it be for some time. Yet to Javert, such things seemed possible, even likely to occur. The capsizing of one's life invariably has such effects on a person. Some ties with reality are lost while others remain perfectly intact.

Of those ties that remained intact in Inspector Javert, all of them seemed to scream out with discomfort. The woolen coat was water-logged to such an extent that it added several pounds to its already heavy weight. This made his back and legs, still worn from the Seine, cry out with sharp, burning agony. The thought occurred to him that he might drop the coat to the ground. He instantly rejected this, telling himself that to do so would be unreasonable. To expose himself to the cold night air for the sake of the weight his coat presented? Such a thing was as weak as it was foolish. Thus, the man stood there, shivering in his boots as he stared blindly and resolutely ahead of him. Several minutes passed this way. Still the inspector did not move. Half an hour passed. The wind had begun to chill even the inside of the fabric. Still the inspector refused to budge. Another hour passed. Suddenly, he threw his gaze to the heavens, his grey eyes searching for something in its vastness—some sign. There was none. The clouds still covered the sky like thick grey wool, letting no celestial body pass through it. He was on the point of crying out.

Then, in an instant, a patch in the clouds appeared, revealing a single star. It was small and dim, what we now would call a white dwarf star. To most, it would barely be called a star at all-- a pinprick in the heavens at most. But to the mind of one who had just fallen from a great height, it was a sign of purpose, of light. It showed that he had not been abandoned. By whom or what he had been abandoned he was not sure. He just knew he had been left alone and that this star showed a return.

At that same instant, his coat dropped to the ground.

He was unaware of its abscence-- only that some weight (be it physical or metaphysical) had fallen from his shoulders. He removed his gaze from the heavens and back down to the alley across from him. With luck, he might be able to make it out of Paris before the clock struck nine. What then? He did not know. First things first, he was to get out of Paris.

Leaving the coat where it had fallen, he marched with new, if somewhat stiff, vigor past the graveyard and beyond to the outskirts of Paris.

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Once again, reviews are greatly appreciated!


	3. A Scream in the Night

I believe this may have sorted out the coat problem! Let's see if I'm right.

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Thanks to L'Ael-Inire, PhantomInspector, Marionette Javert Edwards, and AmZ for their reviews.

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It was nearly the end of the day by the time the inspector slowed his pace.

He had made it to the outer edges of the city with only a slight pause to let a cart pass by and was now approaching Senlis. Otherwise the way had been clear. This had allowed him to pass, without stopping, through the north edges of Paris and out of the city with the use of Rue de St. Denis.

Ten hours later, he was approaching Senlis.

No doubt he was exhausted by this point. As one will recall, he had been pulled out of the Seine earlier that day and was still experiencing discomfort because of it. This made his pace, though constant, a little slower than usual, subsequently making his journey last longer than he would have otherwise intended.

As he was walking, he was forced, through lack of other relevant thoughts, to consider his current action. He was not sure what bade him "take his leave" from Paris. Perhaps the dismal street he had previously been walking down cemented some sort of concept that he needed fresh air. Perhaps the idea of people, in his agitated state, simply annoyed him to the extreme.

Or, and this is may be the most likely, he wished to get away from the Revolutionaries and, most importantly, Jean Valjean.

Indeed, he had never felt such a loathing for the man he had hunted for more than twenty years. If fate was the designer, Valjean was certainly the agent. No, fate could not have done such a thing without Monsieur l' Maire's help—of this Javert was certain. It was because of this offense on his person that l'Inspector found himself fleeing (for that is the correct word despite all his arguments to the contrary) the city of Paris.

Despite the uncomfortable choice of subjects, he continued thinking. There is little else to do when one is walking down a country road. After a few minutes, he determined that more than anything, he wished he could go back to that former world where law and order mattered above all else. Had Paris been as it was just two days ago, he would have turned on his heels and began to march back. If things had been as they were, he would never had left. Now, that world was dead-- a fact which only made him long for it more. He kept thinking of how comforting it would have been to have his stick in his hand—to walk out of the station, knowing he had rid the streets of some small bit of scum. He wanted once again to be sure that what he was doing was meant to be done, that he was on the side of right!

But all that had been cast away. And what was left was a man—mortal, fallible, and scared.

Agitated by the thought, he picked up his pace, attempting to wipe this drivel from his brain. He had failed at his duty and was to be exiled because of it. That was all. Such action was just and he was still a force of justice.

He continued for two more miles like this, reminding himself with every step that he was still on the side of right. Yet all the while fear and doubt wormed its way through his soul.

Finally, when his legs could go no further, the unfortunate soul collapsed.

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Javert awoke to the sound of a gun firing*. Night had decended while he slept and, for a moment, he considered that what had occurred might all have been a dream. He thought that perhaps his wish had been granted-- that it was still the night of June 6th.

However, a sharp pain in his back and the sound of dairy cows quickly refuted this assumption. It had not been a dream, merely a waking nightmare.

Thinking perhaps a pinch of snuff would somewhat assuage this situation, he reached for where he usually kept his ornament box*--in his coat pocket. However, he found that not only was his snuff box missing, his coat was absent as well. Assuming he had taken it off before going to sleep (he would not admit to collapsing), he groped for his coat only to find it still missing. Frustrated, his quick mind searched back for where he could have left it, only to come to the awful conclusion that it was still at La Madeline. Fuming at this own foolishness, he lay back on the ground with a thump. He had two options now, to go back to Paris and retrieve his coat (a walk of twenty miles) or to go on without it. Naturally, his first reaction was to retrieve it. Not only was such an item extremely valuable and useful, it was also one of the few vestiges of his former life.

And it contained his snuff box.

However, after testing one of his legs and finding he could only move it with much effort and pain, he decided that such an action would not be prudent. He would retrieve it later, to be sure, but in his present condition he would not be likely to get even so much as one mile, not to mention twenty.

Nonetheless, he still needed to remove himself from the side of the road. The position he was in at the present moment, namely lying by a road without so much as a stick to defend himself with, was not one to be taken lightly. Highway robbers, especially disappointed ones, were, and still are not, the friendliest of people. One must also take into account that in his condition he would not have been able to stop them from slitting his throat. Thus, it was with a muffled groan that he pushed himself to his feet.

As our bedraggled officer stood up, he noticed a little boy standing in the middle of the road. The child was no more than seven years old and clearly was not accustomed to wandering the streets at night. The feathers of dirty blond hair that fell about his ears were ruffled as if someone had tried to get him to prepare him for bed and failed miserably. His clothing was in a similar state—half blue-striped pajamas, half grubby street clothes. The lad was staring, his blue eyes wide, at the recently awoken figure with a mixture of awe and pure fear.

This was unsurprising to Javert—he had found he generally had that effect on children. He had seen it often enough when he had taken criminals from their homes—their children watching in shock as his menacing figure passed by their window.

However, he had never seen one scream, which is just what this little boy began to do at the top of his lungs. It was a loud, high-pitched noise and one that was readily answered with a candle in a nearby window and the sound of rushing feet. A woman in a creamy white nightdress (which, Javert noted with disgust, was only half covered by a dark blue robe) appeared seemingly out of nowhere to defend the child. The boy's eyes instantly dried of his tears as the woman bent to comfort him, the sounds of relieved scolding issuing from her. His fears now mitgated, he glared insolently at the inspector, no doubt expecting his mother (or aunt, or whomever she was) to beat the threatening stranger to such an extent that only very close relatives would be able to recognize the body.

Smirking a little at the boy's naiveté, Javert stepped onto the road and was about to simply take his leave without another word when he heard someone shout for help. He instantly whirled around, all the habits of more than two decades in the justice system springing to life in him. As he looked around to seize the villain, he heard a whistle blow. Scarcely a moment after the shrill noise ended, he felt his arms being pinned behind his back.

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1. The gun firing had come from a nearby execution. Since it was only one night after the Rebellion, many rebels were still in the process of being captured—and killed.

2. Another term for "snuff box"

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Reviews are very much appreciated!


	4. The Gypsy

Remember: Pont au Change

Thanks to L'Ael-Inire for her review!

A half-awake policeman glared across the fiacre at the former inspector, whose complexion resembled that of a dusty apple from the humiliation. The gendarmes weren't long in their task. They had had his hands tied behind his back with course rope and a fiacre called before he could so much as say his name. Granted, this was somewhat understandable considering the inspector's appearance at the time. A six-foot Roma of his strength (and in the particularly disheveled state the inspector doubtlessly was in) would not have made a good impression on anyone, much less the police. Add to this the cold, threatening air which had served the man so well during his time on the force, and it becomes no mystery why the gendarmes reacted as they did—brutally and efficiently.

Nonetheless, such treatment was intolerable to the eyes of Javert. He was a citizen and moreover an officer of the law. To be treated as a common criminal was beyond demeaning, especially when he had done nothing wrong. To his rather extensive knowledge of penal code, he had been entirely within his rights to be sleeping by the road. The action was a little foolish perhaps, given the frequency of highway robberies, but within his rights. Furthermore, having been bound by Enjorlas and his crew only two days ago, this fresh confinement brought back severely unpleasant memories of the former. Thus, it was with barely concealed loathing and disgust that Javert stared across the fiacre at the officer.

The officer himself, having just been pulled out of bed to deal with a large, ragged-looking gypsy, stared back with a gaze reflecting similar sentiments to that of his captive.

Finally, he cleared his throat noisily and pulled a notebook out of the inner pocket of his jacket. "Parents?" he asked in a tone that suggested the man across from him had been created by some means other than human conception.

"My mother was Jaelle Mihai. I do not know my father," he answered with perfect civility. Inwardly, he was bristling over this man's impertinent questioning of his heritage, but to show such hostility was out of the question. Rather, he gave a slight smile, letting the man scribble away in his notebook as he asked more questions of the inspector's place of birth, current home, and income- questions Javert himself had asked so many times of the sniveling miscreants he had arrested.

When they finally arrived at occupation, Javert paused a bit before answering. To say he was an inspector, or rather a recently deceased inspector, would not be prudent. If they did happen to believe him, further questioning would ensue over why a man of his position and stage in life was choosing to frighten small children in the middle of the night. More likely though, they would assume he was being pert or (and given his disheveled appearance this was perhaps the most likely) they would assume that he was insane.

The penal institutions for the mentally ill, if a little nicer than the regular prisons, were still despicable places- especially when one has been sent there by mistake.

Keeping these facts in mind, he quickly tried to come up with something close enough to the truth and far enough from "inspector" to keep him out of harm's way. "I was…a guard."

"Oh?" the man asked with a slight raise of his eyebrow. "Over what?"

"A prison," he replied, mentally cursing the man's stupidity. "I was a guard at Toulon."

The man grimaced. Clearly he had heard of Toulon. "And what is a man like you doing here?"

Unwilling to extend his story further, Javert simply stared at him, his grey eyes boring holes into the other gentleman's forehead. Apparently, from this the man derived his answer, for the next thing he did was scribble a few words in his notebook then place the papers in his jacket pocket. "Well, _monsieur_, we're almost to the station," the officer sneered. "Anything else you would like to say?"

"Other than that you are a disgrace to your profession?" Javert thought to himself. Rather than voicing these thoughts aloud though, he simply shook his head.

"Very well." The man said as the door of the fiacre opened. Glancing over the bulk of the man across from him, he added, "I suppose you know you're to come willingly."

"Am I?" he thought, once again inwardly chastising the man. A real criminal would have broken past him and been halfway to Reims by now. However, Javert was no criminal.

With strained civility, he responded in the affirmative. At this, the officer gave a barely concealed sigh of relief and motioned for the man to follow him. This Javert did, somewhat awkwardly due to his bound hands, though not as awkwardly as before at the barricades as he was no longer martin-galed, and trailed behind the rather portly officer, who was going at an enfuriatingly slow pace. Once they reached the door (which no doubt seemed to take an eternity to our bound inspector), the officer pulled out a set of keys and, not bothering to keep an eye on his prisoner, spent a full minute trying to get the lock to open. Marveling at the man's lack of common sense, he hoped that this imbecile was only a substitute for a more competent officer.

He wasn't.

Or at least he was the officer that was designated to care for the villain known to them only as "the gypsy". The man our inspector had spent the ride with, whose name we will later learn was Monsieur Lebête, was apparently the assistant head of police and was rather proud of this singular achievement. This became overtly clear when the portly man deigned to remove his coat, revealing several brass medals he had won (in a contest he had created) for his "outstanding service to the public good". No doubt this came close to physically sickening our champion of the law. Nonetheless, he maintained a cool and detached demeanor with his fury of soul only reflected in his firmly clenched jaw and a hard glint in his eyes. This can be seen as a credit to the immense store of will-power Monsieur l' Inspector possessed.

After a few moments of looking over papers and talking to the two other officers the station currently possessed, it was decided that the gypsy would be placed in a holding cell until the assistant head of police could gather enough information to confirm whether he was a murdering con or an innocent civilian.

Now this may seem like a reasonable action to the outside observer. The law must be sure of itself before taking action after all. However, considering the fact that no one Javert knew lived in Senlis and that those who had known him in Paris believed him to be a lifeless corpse, such a situation became astoundingly difficult. It was therefore with a certain amount of consternation that Javert found himself escorted to the row of jail cells at the back of the station and put under guard.

As he sat in his cell, he reflected on how long such investigations normally took. He had known cases such as these to last for months. However, this was in the extremity. It was more common for the person in question to be presumed guilty after a week of fruitless investigation and be taken to the court of Assizes.

Naturally, neither of these options were particularly favorable to our inspector. Such a case was not worthy of Javert or, for that matter, the court of Assizes. Moreover the hassle of having to prove he was both a citizen and a law-abiding one was not the most pleasing of ideas. There was the possibility (which even Javert had to recognize despite his immense faith in the law) that his case could be mistried. No, it was better to spare both the court and himself the trouble by finding some way to prevent them from taking such a step.

After a few moments, he found that he could think of only one favorable course of action, and that in of itself was not particularly satisfying. He could work for the station. The place was clearly under-brained, if not understaffed, and he was more than qualified for the job. After a few months, he would have worked off his bail and been on his way. Still, the idea of returning so quickly to the task of law enforcement after his recent catastrophe was not a pleasant one. Then again, he thought to himself as he sipped at the cup of water that had been left for him, given his prisoner status he would not be given decisions like those he had had to face with Jean Valjean. Indeed, the most strenuous task he could remember coming across as a young officer was not mental or moral, but the physical tasks of restraining and running after hooligans—tasks which would remove his attention from the swirling thoughts of the last few nights.

Thus, resigning himself to his course of action, he sipped a little bit at the cup of water provided him and waited for his inept overseer to return.

This did not take long. Apparently, it had just occurred to Monsieur Lebête that he had forgotten to inform himself of his prisoner's name- despite its being the first thing one usually asks. Thus, the portly man appeared before the inspector's cell with pen and notebook in hand.

Javert had noticed the lack when they were in the fiacre. However, not being in the mood to assist his companion, he had not pointed out the mistake. So now, at the sight of the somewhat perplexed assistant head, a small smirk made its way across Javert's lips. "Name- Sunara Javert."*

The civil servant blanched a little at having his thoughts so easily read. No doubt he attributed it to gypsy magic rather than the astute mind of a police inspector first class.

He quickly wrote down the information and slipped the notebook under his right arm. His mouth half-open, he gazed suspiciously at his captive before muttering, "Yes, well… that is all."

With that he turned around and began to make his way, rather hurriedly, from the room. Javert simply frowned at his retreating back and cleared his throat.

"One moment... monsieur."

Lebête turned around, eyeing his prisoner with suspicion. After all, this strange man, who showed no sign of fear at being put in a jail cell, had just read his thoughts. "What?"

Our inspector clenched his jaw, wishing he did not have to go through with his entreaty. "Might I perhaps render some assistance to the force while you are going through the necessary formalities?" He gestured with his head to the notebook under the man's arm. "You can see I have worked with the law before, if on the slightly more unsavory end. I believe you could find me most useful."

Now Lebête was the one clenching his jaw. Clearly, such an option was not the most congenial to him. Perhaps by now he had realized the possibility of such a man being able to break through any resistance they brought against him.

Javert let a little sigh escape through his nose. "If you wish, I can remain bound."

This seemed to hearten the man considerably. After a few more moments of thought, he shook his head, muttering to himself "Well, it can't hurt to try it—and if he remains bound…" He turned his attention back to his prisoner. "I assume you wish to be paid for your trouble?"

"Food and board will do," he answered, deciding not to bring up the idea of bail until later. At a slight frown from Lebête he added, "It is no more than you would otherwise give a prisoner. _Total_ starvation, last I looked, was not part of the jailing process."

But this was not what the Lebête found so perplexing. He was wondering what could possibly motivate a criminal to work for the police-furthermore without pay! At the same time, he realized such an offer would be foolish to pass up.

"Very well, then," he said. He took the notebook from under his arm and flipped it open. "Given your history, I suppose you could start out on file-duty. There's a pile of menial reports on my desk. You are to sort them and place them in the bottom drawer of my desk." He glanced up at Javert. "Is that clear?"

"Perfectly."

"Untie his hands..."

*One may have noticed that this name is profoundly Roma. We ourselves were surprised by this turn of events, until we realized that such is the mind set of a gypsy woman giving birth in jail. This, in our minds, also explains the lack of any mention of Javert's Christian name in all but two of the documents recording his existence.


	5. A Chance Escape

Sorry this chapter is so short. I've been busy editing the previous chapters and trying to get my non-writing work done.

Thanks to L'Ael-Inire and PhantomInspector for their reviews!

Half an hour later, all the reports had been sorted- both alphabetically and by level of importance to the town. They sat in several neat piles in the bottom drawer of Lebete's desk with some minimal notations added in Javert's neat, even handwriting. Javert himself was sitting in a wooden chair with his back to the unlit furnace, idly paging through a case summary. Two fingers of his right hand curved up along the side of his jaw and his chin rested on the remainder of his hand, giving him a peacefully intent, almost muse-like appearance.

It was in this position that Lebête found him.

After glancing at the vanished pile of papers, and checking the bottom drawer to make sure he hadn't burned them (though the absence of smoke might have led him to that same conclusion), he turned to the inspector with a slight scowl. "You've done this before?"

"You could assume that," Javert replied, not lifting his eyes from the summary. "Have you checked the sewer system?"

"What?"

Javert removed his fingers from his jaw and tapped at the paper he held in his left hand. "The sewers, it is often the case that crucial evidence can be gained from searching them. A… waterway holds similar possibilities."

Lebête's face turned a brilliant red. "How the… no, we have not checked the sewers, or the river for that matter! Why should…!"

"I suggest that you do so." He set the paper down on Lebête's desk. "It may be of the utmost importance to the case."

With this final statement, he gazed expectantly at the man before him as if to say "now what was it you wished to see me about?"

Luckily for both the officer and his charge, they were interrupted by the sound of the main door being nearly ripped off its hinges. "Monsieur Lebête!" a breathless voice called out, causing both their heads to whip towards the noise. "You'd better come quick. A rebel has escaped."

"You," he said, pointing to one of the two other officers present. "Lock him up. Make sure… make sure he doesn't give you any trouble while I'm gone." With that, he glanced at the inspector, swiped his hat from the coat-rack and hurried out the door.

Moments later, the loud bang of a pistol rent the air—once then once again. The two younger men glanced at each other before hurrying towards the door, leaving Javert where he was sitting.

Now those of you with any sense of self-preservation may be wondering why at this point our inspector didn't just walk out the back door. He was no longer bound, no one was watching him, and he wasn't particularly fond of the policeman or his lackeys. It seems as though such a situation would have been a favorable one for getting on a boat and heading to Rouen. However, this was not Javert's way. Not only would such action mean defying the law, he also found that he was beginning to feel like his old self again, namely like a solid enforcer of justice. Thus it was with a cool, calculating air that he got up from his seat by the furnace, folded his hands behind his back, and walked over to the window, from which he could see the road below.

The stone-cobbled street was in a state of confusion. The two officers were fighting with a young man, who was brandishing a pistol over his head- presumably his father's from the war. The boy kept pulling the trigger, though nothing came out since its only bullet had been fired several moments ago. Monsieur Lebete was leaning a few feet away from them against the small iron-wrought fence that bordered the station. From where Javert stood, he could just barely see a trace of blood coming from between the officer's fingers as he clutched his shoulder. However, our Inspector soon realized that Lebete was not the only one injured. A man whom Javert barely recognized as one of the gendarme from earlier lay in the street—or at least what remained of him. From the strained expression and the blood seeping from the man's skull, one could presume that his body was all the remained of him and that his soul had already disappeared.

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	6. A Reflection and Incompetence

Sorry about the delay. I've been working with this bit for awhile, trying to mesh out the details. Hopefully the fact that it's a long chapter makes up for it!

Thanks to L'Ael-Inire and PhantomInspector for their reviews!

Javert took a deep breath. A quick overview of the scene determined that the shot had come from the escaped rebel, who himself was now on his knees with the taller of the two young officers bearing down on him. The fateful weapon was a few feet from them with the hammer pulled back, ready to strike. The other officer was shouting at the top of his lungs words Javert could not fully hear, and thus ignored. No, what was far more interesting was the way the pinned man now stared at his victim- a mixture of fear and shock covering his begrimed face.

Once he had been pushed off his feet, his knees ground in the dust, his gaze locked on the dead man before him. He seemed to not fully understand what had transpired. Rather, he looked at the body as a child does a strange object in the road, with an air of curiosity and awe, and with no sense of recognition.

A similar expression was painted of the faces of the curious town-folk who, having been awakened by the shot, had now come to gather around the scene of the crime- as people so often do when confronted with an aberration in their quiet towns. However, unlike the murderer's, their eyes also held that flickering of horror one has when he recognizes a familiar face turned ashen from death's cold hand. A few of the women in the crowd, upon seeing the body, crossed themselves and began mouthing little prayers. A gaggle of small children, the boy from earlier among them, had freed themselves from the arms of their mothers and now stood tangled in their fathers' robes. They too saw the body, but their large, innocent eyes failed to take in the seriousness of the situation. To them, as with some great philosophers, the gendarme was merely fast asleep. Such is the wisdom of children.

Meanwhile, understanding had begun to creep upon the rebel as he knelt there. He looked around, his neck straining to see the extent of the crowd about him. His eyes widened with horror upon seeing that young children were witnesses to this act. He tried to rise, only to be pressed into the earth once again by the young officer. Realizing any attempt to stand would be futile, he gazed frantically at the villagers as if to say "this corpse is not mine, I had no part in this."

From where he was standing, Javert could read perfectly the man's silent plea of innocence. However, his mind was not as occupied with the man's guilt as with the impression the scene had made on himself. The man's bewildered expression reminded our inspector of another man for whom the unexpected and horrific had occurred- except rather than granting death, this man's topsy-turvy state had been caused through granting life. The scene from the bridge flashed across his thoughts. How, in just such a moment as this man was experiencing now, he had resolved to take his own life—or rather to let the Seine take it for him. That he did not have the strength of will to perform such a task himself roughly brushed the back of his mind, but such a thought was doomed to stay there, far from coherency. Instead, his attention moved to the lifeless body of the elderly officer. Already his skin was beginning to take on a pale waxen color and his joints were freezing into their last positions. The man's blue eyes were now pale lifeless orbs, staring fixedly at the sky. For a moment- just a moment—the inspector imagined Valjean as the man kneeling in the road and himself as the lifeless body. Would the same horrified expressions have prevailed when the police found his corpse? Or would there have been a sigh of relief, even of gratitude, that such a man had finally met his end?

These thoughts would continue to plague Javert for years. For now, though, he pushed them violently aside and began to work out what the best thing to do with the rebel was. The man had to die, that was certain. He had been condemned to death before as an agitator and now doubly so as a killer. Either way, he was doomed.

Yet, as he looked at the man bent over in the road, a feeling he had never felt before in all his years with the police worked its way into his soul—that of pity. Granted, the feeling was not a strong one. Had the capacity for pity in a small mouse been the size of an oak tree, the pity in Javert's soul would have been an acorn hanging off its topmost bough. Yet still, the seed was there, and its presence frightened the man to no end. Not only was the feeling a relatively foreign one, the situation was totally inappropriate for its genesis. The man was a murderer and an enemy of the state! To pity him was just as abominable as setting him free—that is to the eyes of our former inspector. To many others, pity and action were two entirely separate beings, much to the chagrin of many a poor beggar and maimed soul. But to this man of iron, to think it was to do it and the action he was thinking of was simply intolerable.

Luckily, the decision was not his to make. He was no more than a criminal to their eyes—only slightly better than the man himself. His lip curled up in a small sneer at the idea. Had anyone been by to see it, they would have said that he resembled a caged fiend—with the way his lip curled and how he was staring out the window with an intent, almost vengeful gaze. They would not have noticed the relaxation in his shoulders, nor that his hands were limp at his sides. He was unable to do anything, and, in this one situation, he was glad of it. His reasoning, he told himself, was compromised and in such a state he would have discharged himself from duty if someone had not done it for him. Everything was as it should be.

By this time, it was determined that the man would not be putting up any more resistance and had been hauled roughly to his feet. Hanging limply between the two men, the rebel was dragged inside, handcuffed (for the officers had been in such a haste that they had forgotten to get any), and placed in a chair in Lebete's office. Seeming not to realize that Javert was present (he had at this point moved away from the window and back to the chair he had previously been inhabiting), they began questioning the man—a process that both fascinated and appalled our inspector. It was fascinating because he had nearly forgotten how much of a thrill it was to interrogate a suspect. His years with the police had somewhat hardened him to these aspects, enough that they no longer seemed quite as interesting as when he had first started. Now, as he watched the prisoner talk, or refuse to talk as the case may be, he realized just how fascinating such a process was. The need to make the prisoner both comfortable enough to talk and nervous enough to not hold back information, the control it took to keep emotion from entering into the equation especially when dealing with a murderer like this man, and the ever present issue of asking the right questions in the right format. There was a formula, of course, but such things were never quite right, especially when dealing with the lower classes. One could not phrase things as "what was your motive" but rather as "why did you do it" if he wished to be understood. Add to this the state of frenzy or despair that the prisoner doubtlessly was in at this point, and it can be understood why the process was so interesting.

It was appalling because neither of the two young officers quite knew how to go about it.

They were both fairly new to their jobs-Javert had been able to tell that as soon as he saw them. He hadn't realized quite how new they were—or rather what an effect their friend's murder had had on them. They were employing the basic methods, but their blood was so riled up at having seen this man shoot one of their comrades that a large portion of the interrogation was spent merely threatening the man with everything from jail time to disemboulment. Naturally, this was not the way to get information out of him. The man simply sunk down further in his chair, gazing up at the two policemen with wide, fearful eyes and refusing to open his mouth for even so much as a second.

Finally, Javert had had enough. Clearing his throat, he looked from one officer to the other and said: "Excuse me, gentlemen, but might I try?"

At the sound of Javert's voice, the two officers looked up in alarm. As was mentioned before, they were not aware of his presence. "Might I try?" he proposed again, somewhat slower. Realizing that they were getting nowhere, and that the man before them had some experience in such matters, the two young officers graciously gave the floor to the inspector.

"Good afternoon, Monsieur…?"

"Crevier," the man replied, somewhat surprised at this change of tone.

"Right. Crevier. Now, could you possibly tell me what caused you to shoot one of our officers?"

"I didn't mean to…!"

"Of course not, of course not, my apologies. Let me rephrase that: what were you doing with a pistol concealed under your coat?"

"I was trying to escape."

"From what?"

"The police, monsieur. They said I was a rebel."

"And are you not?"

"No, sir."

"I'm afraid I don't quite comprehend," he said, crossing one leg over the other. "You mean to tell me that you are not a rebel, but that you were arrested for being one. That the police made a mistake."

"Yes, sir."

"I see…" A pause followed, during which the cuffed man found himself shifting uncomfortably in his seat like a schoolboy. "How?"

"How what, sir?" he said, pausing in mid shift.

"How did the police make this mistake? Surely you must know." He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned in a little bit closer. "Some sort of mistaken impression, I gather. What was it… mistaking a radish for a revolver, perhaps?"

The man turned his face away from Javert. "You're mocking me…" he muttered under his breath.

The inspector tilted his head to one side, a crooked half-smile on his lips. "How can you tell?"

"They always mock me…" He growled, gesturing with his head to the crowd of people slowly making their way back to their houses for what little remained of the night.

"I may not be," Javert replied after a brief pause. The bound man's hands clenched and unclenched, unsure how to react to this. "I may be asking a serious question."

Crevier looked up at him, his blue eyes searching, then back at his shoes. "Serious questions don't involve radishes."

At this, Javert got up and stood over him, his nose just inches from the other man's ear. "And serious answers don't involve lies. Now tell me the truth, what was it that got you arrested?"

"Monsieur, we already…" one of the officers began to say, only to be cut off by a brisk wave of Javert's hand. The inspector leaned in a bit closer- his dark eyes shimmering in the candlelight with an almost maniacal gleam. His right hand moved to the place where he usually kept his pistol, only to find it missing. However, the general movement (and the fact that Crevier was unaware of the gun's absence) was enough for the prisoner to understand where the inspector's mind was going and to believe him capable of carrying out such devastating action.

Javert gave a menacing grin. "Well, monsieur?"

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	7. Interrogation

Sorry about the wait. I've been preoccupied with other things.

Having recently gone to France, I will be updating some of the previous chapters based on information I had gathered there. Hopefully not much will change, apart from the flavor of some of the scenes, which I hope will be an enhancement rather than a detraction. Also, as you will note, Lebete's status has changed drastically (as is evidenced by his being in this next scene). If I've missed any pieces in the change, please let me know either through messaging or reviews.

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About fifteen minutes later, the police had the man's critical information on file and a confession signed and dated.

In his office, Monsieur Lebete sat across from the inspector, his shoulder wrapped in a bandage that already looked like it needed to be changed. The pair were in a somewhat different attitude from when they first found themselves seated across from each other. Lebete was fully awake, for one, though how long he would stay that way was up for debate. Instead of scorn in his eyes a certain sense of curious awe was there. Our inspector was far from humiliated as he had been in the fiacre, instead taking on the attitude of one who was used to winning battles but still found something of a thrill in them.

Lebete stood up and stalked over to the fireplace, in what one would almost classify as an attempt to distance himself from the Inspector. Finally after a few moments he cleared his throat. "I don't know who you are, or where you came from…"

"You have my information on file," Javert interrupted. "In fact, I believe that was our first order of business."

Lebete pursed his lips and continued. "You seem to be good at police work. As there are as yet no charges being pressed against you, though naturally that may change..."

"Naturally," Javert repeated, folding his arms across his chest.

"…I see no problem in letting you help around the station, perhaps with something more than file-work, until those charges are pressed or the people who would press them express their contentment in the matter."

Javert adjusted himself in his chair, pressing his crossed arms more tightly against his body. The idea of working seriously under Lebete appalled him; and yet more appalling was the idea of returning to actual police work after so brief a reprieve. Jumping in the Seine had been his resignation form from police work just as it had been intended to release him from every other part of life. However, the natural course of things otherwise was to be a prisoner under this man's imbecilic care until charges were brought forth or he was released.

What was worse, he was beginning to get a headache. He had ignored all his body's signals for the past twelve hours and now his body was getting its revenge. His muscles were aching, worse than they had when he'd first emerged from the Seine, and his mouth felt as though he hadn't had any water in days—a feeling which was far from the truth. Furthermore, his mind had slowly become wrapped in a fog that he was fighting with all his strength to think through.

As Javert fought to sort out his current situation, the door to Lebete's office opened to reveal the woman from the street. Her eyes settled on Javert and widened to an almost impossible extent. She looked at Lebete with an expression of sheer horror. "Monsieur Lebete! What are you doing?"

"Madame Gallaird!" Lebete cried. He scrambled with a few papers on his desk. "I didn't expect you until later today."

"I came as soon as I could," she replied, her gaze once again on our inspector. "What is that man doing out of his cell?"

This was a good question. In the confusion and chaos of the previous night, Javert had not stopped to think about the strict legality of the situation he'd been placed in or the effect it might have on the civilian and his regard for the law.

As he brooded over this, M. Lebete turned to face Mme. Galliard. "Madame, there are no formal charges against him. I saw no harm in not confining him to a cell on such a basis."

"No charges!" the woman screeched. "What about my son?"

Javert cleared his throat and set his steely gaze upon the hysterical woman. "Madame," he began. "I never so much as touched the child, nor did I have any plans to. I fell asleep by the side of the road and he happened to see me when I awoke."

"Oh, and where had you come from? Some gypsy colony, that's where. I've heard of your type. Scouting out places to steal and kidnap before your band moves in." She turned to Lebete, who was staring at her with a mixture of awe and fear. "Monsieur Lebete, you must remove this scum from our village before the whole place becomes crawling with them."

Lebete looked helplessly from Mme. Gallaird to Javert. Finally, he spoke in voice almost like a squeak, "You accuse this man of having attempted to kidnap your child?"

"Attempted? He almost did!" Mme. Gallaird cried. "If I hadn't heard his cry, he would've been sold away. My poor boy!"

It was then that something inside Javert broke. He stood up and walked over to the window, crossing his arms in front of him almost in the attitude of Napoleon. "Let us get several points clear," he growled with all the ferocity of a tiger. "First, Madame, I came from Paris, not some caravan of gypsies. Secondly, I am an officer of the law, and have been so for thirty years. I am not a street thief nor a vagabond."

Lebete looked at him with surprise. A guard at Toulon is not quite the same as an officer of the law, though they both may cover the same ground in terms of people- as anyone who has followed the career of M. le Inspector certainly knows. Mme. Gallaird simply glared at him.

"Then what were you doing lying in the road?" she said. "Policemen don't just lie in the gutters." She turned to Lebete, entreating him. "That's where gypsies and thieves spend the night, Monsieur, not honest men."

Lebete set his gaze on Javert, waiting for an answer. The same question no doubt had occurred to him, if not earlier then at the prompting of Mme. Gallaird.

Javert merely snarled. The last thing he wanted to tell anyone, indeed the last thing he wanted to admit to himself, was that he had been fleeing Paris and collapsed by the roadside. However, it was a direct question, and after his conduct with the rebel, it was not likely that they would think he was being pert if he told them the truth. So, reluctantly, Javert turned to face his two questioners. "I was leaving Paris," he began. He did not add why. "Due to the riots, which Monsieur and Madame are no doubt aware of, I was in poor condition to travel, though I did not think it an issue at the time. I felt myself in trouble at about the spot where Mme. Galliard's son found me and soon fell asleep. When I awoke, the child saw me and began screaming." The pain in his head began to throb as if the child were once again screaming in his ears. "The rest you know," he added, gesturing to Mme. Galliard and Lebete.

The two looked at each other, then at the figure before them.

"But, Monsieur," Lebete began, already forming the dreaded question. "Why was it that you decided to travel from Paris in such a state? On foot no less!"

Javert grit his teeth, mentally calculating how much they would believe and how much he desired to tell them. It did not amount to much. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he was able to complete a single sentence, the fog enveloped him. The last thing he recalled was falling to the floor and the screams of Mme. Galliard.

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	8. An Unfamiliar Place

I apologize for the delay. This chapter has been giving me a rough time for awhile now, but I think I finally have it under control. Enjoy!

Also, for those of you who were here before the hiatus I took, I made some significant changes in the last two chapters, so you might want to read them before reading this one. Sorry for the inconvenience.

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The first thing Javert saw when he awoke was the mottled planking of the ceiling. His keen eyes gathered that this was not the ceiling of the station, nor was it the ceiling of his own apartment. That it was the ceiling of the barricade was similarly implausible as was the ceiling of Rue de l' Homme Arme, No. 7. No, this was an entirely unfamiliar ceiling and thus an entirely unfamiliar place.

Having thoroughly studied the ceiling, he turned his head slightly to the left. Here, he was met with the sight of an entirely unfamiliar wall. Beginning to get more and more frustrated with this operation, he moved his head to the right. This yielded more favorable results. Now he could see a small bedside table, a window with brown rough spun curtains, and a small chest of what he presumed to be linens.

Moreover he could see a person. It was definitely female as the skirts and slight hillock in the fabric at her chest would indicate. However, her age was something more of a problem. She appeared to be no more than fourteen, but had the air and bearing to her of a woman three times that age. Dark brown hair plaited into a braid fell down her back and here and there attempted to escape its confines by means of a wisp. Her face would have been very round were it not for wan-ness of her cheeks and she had a nose that looked very much like those Javert had seen in illustrations of elves and fairies. Her height gave her a similarly elfish aspect as she appeared to be little more than five foot. Small, child-like hands busied themselves with some knitting that had apparently gone awry several times. This strange creature sat on a wicker chair that had been situated near the window and now looked back at him. She gave a slight smile of what might have been relief and returned to her knitting, muttering something under her breath.

Seeing that he was not alone, Javert tried to pull himself into a sitting position, only to find that his left arm was bound in a sling. Moreover, it stung fiercely whenever he tried to move it—a pain which our valiant inspector recognized from the various scuffles he had been in the midst of during his time on the force as a broken bone. Cursing his ill luck, he thrust himself against the headboard until his shoulders were resting fully against it. Considering himself now in a less vulnerable position, he felt he might address this stranger and find out how he came to be in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar place with a broken arm and a woman-child watching over him as he slept.

"Mademoiselle," he began, not knowing what else to call her.

The woman-child chuckled slightly and looked up from her knitting. "I appreciate the complement," she said. "But I've been widowed and wed twice already, monsieur. 'Madame' may be more suitable."

"Madame," he said, blushing at his error. As he attempted to remember what he had been trying to say before this quibble over titles, the woman-child left the room and returned with a jug of water, a cup, and a small glass bottle. After putting a bit of the bottle's contents into the cup, she poured water from the jug into it and placed it by his bedside. "What is that?" he asked, unable to keep some of the snarl out of his voice.

The woman-child, apparently used to such treatment, placed the jug on the table and wiped her hands on her apron. "It's quinine water," she said simply- as if this were the most natural answer in the world. However, the thing seemed far from natural to Javert. He had never experienced any level of medical treatment higher than sleep and bandages. Consequently, he viewed medicine as an excuse for quack doctors to legally steal money. Thus, he looked at the glass of water and jug with disgust and some skepticism.

"Well, are you going to drink it or not?" the woman demanded, causing Javert's gaze to snap away from the glass of water and focus on her. She was now folding a basket of laundry she seemed to have brought up to the room with her. "If you're not, then I might as well take it away, but I figured you must be thirsty."

"I am, madame, but the quinine…"

The woman looked at him askance. "Don't tell me that a strong man like you is afraid of a little quinine," she said, arching an eyebrow.

Javert grit his teeth at her remark. In truth, he was slightly fearful of the drink. Given Mme. Galliard's reception and the general regard with which most people held him, the possibility of quinine being a euphemism for arsenic was not entirely out of the question. Even if the mixture were not actively made with the intent of killing him, who knew what sort of devilment this woman had purchased under the name of sound medicine? Furthermore, the cost of such a concoction was beyond his means. Like most dead men, he had not a penny to his name and thus was incapable of paying for even the slightest medical treatment. Despite all these fears and doubts, he managed to keep his composure and respond to her remark. "It is not fear, madame," he replied, trying to keep an even tone. "But rather… cost."

"Oh that!" she said as if the entire issue of payment had slipped her mind. "I wouldn't worry about that, monsieur. We have a small bit of money given to us by the parish for people who can't pay. It's not much, but it's enough to have quinine water on the house."

At this, Javert turned a rusty shade of red. To him, this was humiliation upon humiliation. Being a vagabond or a prisoner was one thing, but becoming a charity case was something simply intolerable to his disposition. To accept charity, to him, was not only a show of weakness and a most pathetic spirit, but also a way to get oneself bound up in a web of obligations without a thought to honor or lawfulness. Thus, unable to keep the venom out of his voice, he hissed, "Madame, while I appreciate your goodwill, I will not accept charity."

The widow scoffed and tucked away another shirt. "Well, monsieur, as much as I appreciate your independence, you'd better learn to accept charity because that is what you're going to get."

Javert glowered at the woman. Had he been in a better position physically, he would have gotten up from the bed, pulled on his boots, and left without another word, proving to this pathetic little woman that she could not force anything on Inspector Javert.

Unfortunately, he was not in such a position. His head still ached so fiercely that he could scarcely focus, whether from fatigue or his fall he could not tell, and having one arm bound in a sling would doubtlessly impede any sort of exit he might attempt to make. So, rather than leave, our inspector was forced to make himself content with simply bristling at this woman as she went about the room arranging things here and there and occasionally going back to her knitting.

This silence lasted for a good ten minutes with neither party seemingly intent on addressing the other ever again. However, the game was rigged to the widow's advantage. She presumably knew where she was and what position she currently occupied in life. Javert did not. He did not even know if he was a free man or not. He had been in the midst of clearing his name when he fainted and his case could easily have gone badly for him once he was no longer available to come to his own defense. Thus, it seemed the only way to discover his position, both spatially and in life, was to break the silence and ask this strange woman for the answers.

"Madame," he said as she started another row of her knitting. "Might I ask where I am?"

"Hopital d' St. Thomas*," she replied. "Anything else?"

"How did I get here?" he asked, already dreading the answer.

"M. Lebete was able to drag you part of the way here with the help of one of the other officers. It was a valiant effort on his part. You are no small man, monsieur."

"And the rest of the way?"

"A fiacre was engaged. Dr. Georges took over for M. Lebete once he saw you and was able to get you here."

"How long have I been asleep?"

The woman smiled sadly. "I didn't think you'd remember. You've been here three days. You kept passing in and out of consciousness. Said some queer things too. Something about a number and catching it, however you do that. And how the stars had abandoned you." She shrugged and set down her knitting. "I expect you were delirious."

Javert gave a little sigh and sunk his chin against his chest. He was glad that she had come up with a rational explanation for these ravings, for he could think of none that would not involve revealing painful aspects of his past. Still, he bitterly resented the thought that he had no control over what he had said in the past three days. Had the woman heard more than 24601 and the stars and was simply not telling him? How much detail had he gone into? And, worst of all, would his unconscious words have any bearing on the accusations that were being levied against him? He felt himself grow cold at the thought. If he had murmured in his half-conscious state a memory of any arrest, it could have easily been misconstrued as evidence that he was a kidnapper. Such things do when they are taken out of context. Thus, it was with some amount of trepidation that he thought of how to ask his next question.

It was not an easy question to formulate. The less this woman knew about him and his precarious legal state the better; yet she was the only one so far from whom he might get any information about it. As he was about to speak those fateful words 'Am I a prisoner?', the woman spoke up. "Also, you've been let off. When Mme. Galliard saw you faint…" Javert flinched at the word, but said nothing, at the moment merely thankful that he was not under arrest. "She revoked all charges. I suppose she knows that no one, not even a gypsy, would break their own head on purpose, and that you truly were ill."

"I am released from all charges then?" Javert asked tentatively.

The woman looked at him for a second before resuming her folding. "Unless you have more than Mme. Galliard on your conscience, you're a free man."

"Then I demand to be released at once," Javert growled.

For a second, the woman stared at him disbelievingly, then her face took on an impassive look. "Of course, monsieur, you can leave whenever you like," she said, her tone as impassive as her gaze.

Something seemed off about this. Having cultivated an impassive mask himself, Javert was able to see a little bit of mischief glitter in her eyes.

"I may simply go then?" he asked, a bit warily.

"Of course," she said. "I certainly wouldn't keep someone here against their will. I have plenty of patients to care for already."

Again, there was a faint twinkle in her eyes. Javert frowned and began shifting to the side of the bed.

"Of course," she said as his feet hit the floor. "There is one rather obvious condition. You must be able to walk out."

Javert looked at her curiously. Taking his gaze for a question, she added, "Well, I'm afraid I haven't the strength to carry you out. Besides, I'm not sure what good it would do you if I _were _able to manage it."

"I have no intention of having anyone carry me anywhere," Javert replied with a sneer. At that, he got to his feet, somewhat dizzily, and began to walk towards the door. He had just about made it to the threshold when the world seemed to twist around him. He staggered, his right hand grabbing hold of the doorframe for support.

"You have a fever*, Monsieur Javert," the woman said, her tone now softened. He could just see her face out of the corner of his eye. An expression vaguely resembling pity had replaced the mask that it wore only moments ago. "As you can no doubt see it's a rather strong one."

Javert growled and let go of the doorframe. If he kept his breathing even and ignored the pounding in his head he might be able to make it downstairs. But what then? He crossed into the hallway, preferring the unknown and oblivion to that woman-child's weary expression of goodwill.

Unfortunately, fate seemed to have it in her plans that he stay there, for no sooner had he exited the room than he came face to face with M. Lebete.

"Ah, you're doing better?" Lebete asked. "I had just come to see you, if you were awake. I'm glad to see that you are."

"He's not better, M. Lebete," the woman said, having come into the hallway after her charge.

"Mme. Chenille." Lebete bowed, a gesture which the woman returned with a slight curtsey. This action done, Lebete looked from Javert to Mme. Chenille with confusion. "Why then is he out of bed, madame?"

The woman sighed and placed a light hand on Javert's arm—a hand which he quickly shook off. "It seems nothing short of arrest will keep him here," she said wearily. "Not even a fever."

"You are trying to leave?" Lebete exclaimed with surprise. "That is most inadvisable, especially in your state!"

Javert bit back a comment about what he thought of M. Lebete's advice. Were we to speculate on such a subject, we suspect that it might have involved some strong language and a not very formally worded statement about the man's competency. Rather than voicing such a remark, though, Javert tried to walk past M. Lebete towards the staircase he could see just beyond him.

Mme. Chenille was ahead of him though. No sooner had he passed the policeman than she was standing in front of him a firm hand on his chest. "Monsieur, you are not going anywhere in your state," she said. "I must insist that you go back to your room and lie down."

"I will do no such thing," Javert growled. "I am a free man and as such I am permitted to leave this establishment as soon as I am able to do so."

Mme. Chenille looked to M. Lebete with a harried expression then back to Javert. "Monsieur," she said. "Look down."

Javert knit his brow and reluctantly obeyed. His face turned a bright red. He returned his gaze to Mme. Chenille. "I see," he said. He swallowed hard and attempted to cross his legs. "Where are they?"

"They are currently being laundered," Mme. Chenille replied. "They were rather dirty when you came to us and it is standard procedure when someone has a fever to remove…"

"When will they be returned to me?" Javert said before she could utter another word.

"I cannot say. I would have to ask Jeanette when she's done washing the sheets and…"

"Then, if you don't mind, I shall return to bed," Javert cut in. He turned around and gave Lebete a curt nod.

"Good day, monsieur," he murmured, and with that he retreated back to his room.

* * *

*I've done my best to use some actual places in this narrative. This is not one of them. L'hopital de Saint Thomas is an entirely fictional hospital.

*The term "fever" was used to describe all sorts of diseases in the 1800s. It could be anything from what we commonly refer to as a fever today to the dreaded influenza which took people's lives more often than not. Given Javert's weakened immune system from his dip in the Seine, I have decided to place him on the more serious side of the term and make it a case of the flu.

Reviews appreciated as always!


	9. Lost Souls

I apologize for not updating sooner. To be perfectly honest, I thought that no one was reading this particular work anymore and thus suspended any further publication. With the recent movie, though, it seems that people have taken more interest in Monsieur l'Inspector than I would have previously thought.

* * *

Mme. Chenille came in to check on her patient a few hours later. Much to her relief, she found the inspector to be soundly asleep—with no murmuring or convulsions interrupting him as they had when he had first come to the hospital. Indeed, in her semi-expert opinion, he seemed to be regaining his health, which made her all the more worried about what should be done when he was well. She had seen enough lost souls to recognize one, even if the man did not see it himself, and knew what generally became of them if they were not set aright. The lucky turned to drink. The unlucky were generally found somewhere-be it an alley, a park, or, dare we say, a river-in a condition past any doctor's care. Unfortunately, this man did not seem to have a propensity for drink-even the healthful kind, she noted as she noticed the quinine water on the table, entirely untouched. The widow sighed and took the glass away, theorizing that she might be able to get him to drink it later under the guise of regular water, or perhaps some diluted juice.

"Madame?"

The voice startled her so much that she spilt a little of the water on her apron. She turned around to see Javert looking at her through half-closed eyes. "Yes, monsieur?" she said as evenly as she could.

"My pants…"

"Monsieur, you are in no condition to go anywhere with or without pants," Mme. Chenille replied before he could say another word. This was not entirely true. As we have already noted, his health was improving. However, it was to Mme. Chenille's, and consequently our inspector's, benefit that the man before her believe himself to be incapable of leaving the hospital—at least until she could find someplace else for him to go. She rubbed at the splash of quinine water on her apron before adding, "The best thing you can do is go back to sleep. I shall give you your pants as soon as they are ready." She did not add that they would be ready as soon as she deemed that _he_ was ready. To say that would be to forfeit her plan entirely. Luckily, M. l'Inspector was in no mood to argue. He merely nodded and closed his eyes again.

Mme. Chenille smiled to herself and picked up the basket of clothes she had left in the room, wedging the glass of water in among the shirts. She had expected any argument regarding his clothing to last half an hour at least, not the paltry few seconds it had actually taken. She looked over at the dozing figure in the bed. Perhaps not all was lost with him after all.

* * *

Reviews appreciated as always!


	10. An Attempted Escape

Longer chapter this round. Thank you everyone for their renewed interest!

* * *

Javert all but groaned when he awoke a third time to see the fairy woman sitting at her post by the window.

"I thought I was not a prisoner," he growled.

Mme. Chenille looked up from her botched knitting. "You are not," she said, frowning. "Why do you ask?"

"Because prisoners are the ones who are kept on constant guard, madame," he said. "Not honest men."

"Your fever rose in the night, monsieur," Mme. Chenille responded before turning her eyes back to her knitting. "It was necessary for me to be here to make sure you did not fall victim to it."

The question of why she did not simply let him "fall victim" to his fever momentarily crossed his mind, only to be replaced by the, quite correct, assumption that it was her duty to keep people alive just as it had been his to keep people within the confines of the law. Duty was something he could understand, even if it was not in his favor. Indeed, it was one of the few decent things about humanity that he could fathom. Thus, he merely turned his back to her and tried his best to turn a deaf ear to her clacking needles as she knit another scarf.

However, scarcely a minute had passed before the clacking stopped. "Are you thirsty, monsieur?" the woman asked. She looked at him with kind eyes and something of that weary goodwill that had first drove Javert from the room. "You did not drink anything yesterday or the day before."

If he was honest with himself, Javert did have to admit that he was thirsty. However, to accept anything from Mme. Chenille would be to accept charity, and he would rather die of dehydration than succumb to that pitiable state. "No, madame, I am fine," he said, trying to keep the edge from his voice and failing.

"I must assume that you meant 'Yes, madame, I am parched' since no other statement makes the remotest amount of sense," Mme. Chenille replied tautly. She set down her knitting and gave him a stern look as if daring him to try to cross her in the matter. When he did not respond, she smoothed out her skirt and got up from her seat. "I will go fetch some juice for you," she said. "Or would Monsieur prefer the quinine water?"

Javert did not reply. He was beginning to turn red again, as seemed to be the pattern over the last few days, and was trying to focus on not giving this glorified housewife a piece of his mind. It was her duty after all to make sure that he lived, and keeping him hydrated was part of such a bond. This did not make the situation any less irksome to our inspector, but it did give him the ability to hold his tongue.

"Juice it is then," she said before disappearing from the room. He could just barely make out the words "at least that'll get you some nourishment" as she went down the hall. It seemed that Mme. Chenille was also finding it difficult to hold her tongue.

Once he was sure that she had left, Javert sat up in bed. He instantly regretted this as it gave him a splitting headache. He grit his teeth and focused on the box by the window. If it did indeed contain linens or clothing of some sort, he could possibly wear that in place of his own confiscated clothes and leave. Thus, he forced himself out of bed and over to the window.

Had our inspector been in a more even frame of mind, he might have noticed that the window afforded a view of a little garden which furnished the hospital with some of its vegetables and herbs. Beyond it stood a couple of fruit trees near a stone wall that bordered the road and right up against this wall were some raspberry bushes—some of them already showing some early fruits. The inspector might also have noticed an elderly woman sitting on a bench under one of the trees and the peculiar manner in which she kept looking about her, as if she expected at any moment to be attacked.

As it was, Javert noticed none of these things—all of his attention having been focused on the box and its possible contents. He opened the box and cursed. Inside, were some rags (none anymore suitable to wear than the nightshirt he already had on) and a large basin presumably to hold water or the involuntary excretions of a sick man, or both. He slammed it shut and attempted to stand up, at the same time racking his brains for anywhere else he might acquire something suitable to wear. However, the combined effort of both standing and intense concentration on a problem was beyond his capability at the moment. One or the other had to be sacrificed, and, before Javert could make any decision on the subject, his body decided for him. He fell with a thud against the bed, striking his already aching head on the sideboard.

Through the blinding pain, he heard his name and felt a hand on his wrist. Next, he heard men's voices, saying something he could not quite make out, and then additional hands on his shoulders and under his legs. A sound mind and body would have reasoned that this must be the doctor and perhaps an assistant of his lifting him back onto the bed—as indeed it was. However, both were missing in M. l'Inspector. Pain shifted into panic. Scarcely knowing where to aim, he lashed out at his unknown captors—who in turn abruptly dropped him. The pain in his head increased. Something else was said and the next thing he knew a rag was being placed over his mouth. Darkness consumed him.

* * *

I realize that I have Javert passing out fairly frequently over the last few chapters. I would apologize, but for the fact that personal experience has taught me that when one is exhausted even a simple cold can cause effects similar to those I describe. I can only imagine that the flu, a much more serious ailment, would take a heavier toll on its victim than the common cold and have thus painted the circumstances in such a way.

Reviews appreciated as always!


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